Sentiments
by daysandweeks
Summary: A series of one shots, drabbles, sketches, and vignettes based on various pairings in the series.
1. My Goddess

**Hello everyone! I've decided to write a set of vignettes (one-shots, drabbles, whatever you want to call them) about all of your favorite (or not-so-favorite) AGATB pairings. Check out the Beauties & Rebels forum. I have a post there under "Pairings". If you want to see a particular pairing, let me know there! You can also let me know in a review if you'd rather do it that way.**

**At the top of each story I'll have some info about which pairing it's centered around, the particular synopsis and rating, etc. The rating is set at T for now, but not every fic will be rated that. That's probably the highest these fics will go. If that changes, the rating will as well.**

Story One

Title: **My Goddess**

Rating: **T**

Summary: **Felicity isn't of Ithal's world.**

"Oh no!"

I groan and my eyelids flutter open to see a familiar girl seated before me, naked but for the blanket draped across her shoulder, falling revealingly down her back. I feel a smile spread across my face until I realize that something is wrong with the girl.

"Felicity?" I murmur, my smile faltering. I don't know much English, but I do know a few things—the important things, really. I know greetings and farewells and common words. I know how to express my amorous feelings, if they even need words, and how to say her name, among other things.

The girl—Felicity—stands up, and the blanket falls off of her. She's a goddess really—my goddess. Memories from last night fill my mind. She'd snuck out of school late at night, in just a nightgown, and we'd made love right here on the floor of the tent in which I currently live. She hadn't wanted to fall asleep here. In fact, she'd said that she was going to go back to her school as soon as we were through. By the way light is shining through the small opening in the tent flap, I can tell that things didn't go as she planned.

"Where is my nightgown, Ithal?" she spits, looking down at me. It's chilly in the early morning air, and I don't avert my eyes from all the parts of her body that have come alive in the cold.

Still, her venomous accent doesn't please me. "I don't know," I murmur, squinting now. The light is beginning to bother me, or maybe I sense that everything is going wrong.

"How do you not know where it is?" Felicity growls. She doesn't seem so felicitous, as her name implies. "You're the one who took it off."

I have trouble expressing myself, but manage to say, "Well, it's not _my_ nightgown. And I didn't really have time to…to fold it for you and put it in your wardrobe."

Felicity snorts now. "Very funny. I suppose I'll have to run back to school in this."

I stand up, wrapping the other blanket around me. "Felicity, wait…" She steps out of the tent, and I follow her, grabbing onto her arm. "I'll get you a shirt; you'll be cold like that." I gesture at the way she's draped the blanket around her now. "And some shoes, how'd you get here without shoes?"

Felicity ignores me words. Instead, she averts her eyes from mine and glares at my hand on her arm. She shakes it off and turns around, stomping off.

"Come back here!" I command, chasing after her. I've never had a woman do this to me before. It's not that I've been with many women, but there have been others. But that's when I remember—Felicity may be a goddess, but she's not mine. She doesn't belong to my world.

Still, the thought doesn't come soon enough. I grab onto her blanket now, desperate to hold on. It's my blanket, really. I'll be cold with only one. She keeps walking, tugging at the blanket, but it falls off. She turns to glare at me, naked and beautiful in the just risen sun.

She doesn't even seem phased by her nudity. She waits a second, and then grabs the blanket before wrapping it around herself once more. "I lied to you, Ithal," she says. The frankness in her voice stops me from following her. My one hand falls useless at my side. The other stays gripped on my blanket. "I lied to you when you said you loved me. I've never loved anyone."

And with that, she turns around and leaves me, standing there in a blanket, cold and ashamed.

She's not my goddess.


	2. Tomorrow

**Thanks for reading, guys. Remember, request a pairing if you want!**

**Well, I hope this one keeps some of you guessing a bit. I really liked writing it…it was an interesting pairing to try out. Please, read and review!**

Story Two

Title: **Tomorrow**

Rating: **K+**

Summary: **Ann's lover is leaving tomorrow.**

"Ann?"

I wake up from my drowsy, dozing slumber, and feel his arm around me. I roll over to face him, startled by the hardness of his beauty. His jaw is perfectly square, and he'll have to shave in the morning. "Yes?" I whisper, before kissing him tenderly in the same spot I'd been admiring.

"Did you like Spence? Or are you happy you've graduated?"

My lover's questions startle me. I shiver a bit, and he pulls me closer to his chest. I shift my body so that the blanket covers me more, and think about what he's asked me. After some time of admiring what I can see of his chest in the moonlight seeping through our window, I tell him the truth. "I despised every moment I was at Spence before Gemma came," I say with a laugh. I feel his body tense against mine. It must be awkward talking about her in such a situation—our legs have somehow ended up entwined in the past few seconds. "I despised some moments after that, too, but she made things more bearable."

I smile up at him, and he kisses me, hungrily. "Are you still cold?" he whispers into my neck after the kiss.

"No," I say with a sigh. I kiss him this time, pulling myself out of his embrace to explore the muscles on his back. When we separate, I murmur, tears in my eyes, "But this is the happiest I've ever been, right now."

The tears are coursing down my cheeks now, and he wipes them away. They're not tears of joy, despite my happiness. We both know his intentions. He's leaving here tomorrow—just being in the same city has her makes him sad. He wants Gemma, but she's not his to have.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Kartik whispers into my hair. And with that, I allow myself to fall asleep in his arms one last time.


	3. Interesting

**LunaEquus new story, "That Would Be Lovely", inspired me to write this one (as well as her suggestion). I'm not going to lie. Go read it—it's quite funny. **

**This one is slashy and sort of more than one pairing and just…oh God I don't even know how to get into it. I really don't think it tops the above story at all. (For one, it's much shorter.) But it was fun to write, and my first slashy fic ever, unless randomly mentioning the occasional bit of femmeslash here or there counts.**

Story Three

Title: **Interesting**

Rating: **K+ to T**

Summary: **Simon was disappointed when Gemma told him that her secret was that she had had a lover. He'd expected something more, and more is what he got.**

Honestly, when Gemma told me her secret, I was unpleasantly surprised. I had expected something much more interesting that my fiancée had had a lover at one point in her life. _A lover?_ I'd thought. _How simple. How…boring._

In reality, I'd hoped that Gemma would have said something that sounded insane to me and then I had hoped that she'd prove it to be true. I wanted Gemma to have magical powers or be a member of some secret society. Everyone has lovers these days. Gemma's secrets no longer seemed interesting.

However, when I met said lover (or ex-lover, now…Gemma hasn't been dallying with him any more for one reason or another), my disappointment at my betrothed's lack of interesting secrets soon changed to approval. Kartik was the most beautiful man I'd ever met. Granted, I generally didn't and don't find men beautiful, so this made things even more interesting.

My own flirtations with Kartik were short-lived. He responded, yes, and I found that Gemma was completely sane to be his lover. He had the best lips and was a fabulous kisser. He didn't replace Gemma, no…but he was fun every now and then. And he was always so willing to try new things.

All good things come to an end, though, and so did our relationship. After two months of meeting in caves during the dead of night and sharing rather strange, albeit exhilarating experiences, Kartik told me that he'd had enough. "At first I'd thought sleeping with you would be like sleeping with Gemma," he'd said with a laugh, "but really it's not like that at all."

And so he'd left, and I'd been quite fine with it. I suppose Gemma always suspected that something had gone on between us. Once she said to me, "You know Kartik, who used to work for my family?"

And I said, "Yes, I knew him." And really, I meant it.


	4. Philosophy

**This one's a bit different, I guess. Actually, the last two were a bit different, being as they were told as someone looking back on a relationship. This one, however, actually did take place in the books! Yeah, like the first one. It was hard for me to write, though, because I mentioned Simon in it and it's in Kartik's point of view and I was like OMFG YEAH YOU DID EACH OTHER DON'T DENY IT. Well not really. Just in the last chapter they did. Which took place after this by the way. And in a different universe.**

**Did I mention that none of these stories take place in the same universe unless I want them to? 'Cause that's totally true.**

**Okay, enough of my ramblings. Here's Story Four of Sentiments and I hope that ya'll like it.**

Story Four

Title: **Philosophy**

Rating: **K+ to T**

Summary: **Kartik didn't want to be in a relationship with Emily, although he really could have had her that way.**

I used her, in a way. She never really meant anything to me, but she was always there—full of sympathy and a want to teach and be taught. She wasn't beautiful and she wasn't imperious and she wasn't socially above me. She wasn't a lot of things, but Emily was something very important.

She was there.

She came to me nearly every night that I spent in the stables of the Doyle residence. No, she did not come to me in that sense. She came to be taught to read, although I'm sure her motives weren't to increase her knowledge. I am arrogant, yes, but it is not arrogance that made me believe, or know, rather, that she was interested in me. It was the way she looked at me and moreover the way she looked at Gemma.

To Emily, it was obvious that my true affection did not lie with her. Still, she enjoyed spending evenings in the stables, listening to me read about Circe and Odysseus. I don't think that she enjoyed sounding out the words on the pages before her, but she did it to please me nonetheless.

We didn't just read, though. We talked about things, too. She always initiated the conversation by letting out a small yawn. "I'm rather tired of this reading, Kartik," she'd say. "The story is interesting, but listening to someone read always makes me quite drowsy." Then, before I told her that she better head inside and go to sleep, she'd look up at the stars and say with a sigh, "But it can't be that late yet. Perhaps we should talk for a bit."

I always wanted to talk about important things, but she preferred trifle conversation. I let her lead most conversations, but when I chose to talk about another subject, she rarely stopped me from doing so. If my ideas were too complicated for her, an uneducated girl, to comprehend, Emily would simply say, "But aren't there better things to worry about than philosophy, Kartik?" She said that even if I was talking about something much more concrete, as if everything out of her grasp was abstract and unknown and philosophical.

We didn't just talk, either. Our first kiss was on a cool December night. She'd been talking about purchasing some material to buy a new dress, and I suppose that I kissed her just to shut her up. I felt guilty about the kiss, partially, being as my heart truly belonged to Gemma, and my motives in kissing Emily weren't exactly noble. However, when I kissed Emily and she returned the gesture, I felt something in her kiss that I never felt in Gemma's. Gemma and I hadn't kissed too much, but whenever we did, there was always a question in it. In Emily's kiss, there was an answer. Her answer to my question, whatever it had been, was yes.

We kissed many times after that, despite my condemnations of Gemma's dalliances with Simon Middleton. I quite often pretended that I did not know his name, but I did of course. Emily, after all, adored gossip and talked quite often of his scandalous behavior with a housemaid of some family or another that she was good friends with. She said it with a laugh, though, as if she were making fun of them or did not quite believe the story.

I left the Doyle's residence after some time, and felt terribly guilty about leaving Emily behind. I'd never loved her or even been interested in her for a relationship. She knew that my heart belonged to another woman, yet still she sat with me nearly every evening and kissed me. Kissing isn't exactly the most sacred of actions, yet it is not something expected of proper young ladies. Kisses seem to be reserved for engaged couples, although no one really gossips about those who complete the action before that stage of their life, so long as it goes on behind closed doors. And I suppose that everything we did, as simple as it was, did take place when no one was looking, but what hurt me was that it didn't matter. Here I was sharing stolen kisses with Gemma Doyle, who would be forever shamed if anyone saw us together. Emily, on the other hand, could get away with our relationship, yet I did not want her at all.

Earlier I said that she came to me nearly every night, although not in a sexual sense. I'm sure she would have, though. Again, it is not arrogance that clouds my beliefs. Although kissing was not exactly scandalous, embracing me as a lover would have been frowned upon. And so when I left the Doyle's residence, I left Emily with many things that she didn't really want—a book, her virginity, and a broken heart.

I curse myself for it at least once a day, but everything I did in life brought me to my current situation. If I could go back and change it all, I don't think that I would. But I would change one thing.

I would have never tried to teach Emily to read.


	5. No One Ever Loved Me

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews. But please, to those who have left reviews saying simply: DO A GEMMA KARTIK or I WANT THIS PAIRING…I'll probably do that pairing (and I'll get to Gemma/Kartik eventually), but honestly, I appreciate reviews a whole bunch more than random commands. :) Still, I'll keep your requests in mind, being as it's so fun to do them.**

**That being said, here's the next little fic. Make sure you review, loves.**

Story Five

Title: **No One Ever Loved Me**

Rating: **K+**

Summary: **No one ever loved Felicity until Pippa came along.**

No one ever loved me until Pippa came along. I suppose that's why it's been so hard for me to let her go.

It was torturous, really, to watch her beautiful violet eyes turn to crimson. It was horrid to watch her almost perfectly straight white teeth turn crooked and pointy and yellow. But things like that would be horrid for anyone to watch. I suppose it would be hard for anyone to fathom how I felt.

Pippa was the only one who understood me, and that's why we got along so well. That's why we were friends and perhaps more than friends. We loved one another, but not in a romantic way, no. Sometimes we did things that would have been considered taboo by most of society—we shared many a stolen kiss, but I like to think that the bond between us was more of a sisterly bond than anything. I know that it's not true—that we shared kisses and talked of sharing more, although we never did, but that was just because neither of us knew another kind of affection aside from sexual affection.

I think I really loved Pippa because she was so innocent. Her parents just wanted to get rid of her, yes—send her off with a man before he realized that she was sick, marred, broken. And I think she loved me because I _wanted_ to be innocent, but couldn't escape my past. She was an object solely to be admired from afar. I was an object solely to be used.

And so we admired and used one another in ways I can't begin to explain. But we healed one another as well. I never told Pippa about what my father did to me, nor did she explain her frustration about her epileptic condition. Yet we shared many a night in one another's arms, comforting each other for said reasons.

Pippa is lost to me now, whether I like to admit it or not. She's gone forever—a predator, a servant—no longer a friend. She frightens me, quite honestly. I no longer wish to caress her soft, smooth, ivory cheeks—and not just because they're rough and chapped and red. I can barely remember kissing her full, perfect lips, which are now cracked and broken. Yet I don't _want_ my memory to fade.

No one ever loved me until Pippa.


	6. The Girl in the Picture

**This one was very interesting to write. It's just barely femmeslashy, and as compared to some of these others fics, a bit on the long side, although it's still not very long at all. Please read and review, and feel free to request more pairings!**

Story Six

Title: **The Girl in the Picture**

Rating: **K**

Summary: **Emily wishes she could meet the beautiful girl in Gemma Doyle's photograph.**

The girl in the picture stares at me with beautiful dark eyes. If only I knew their true color. Her obsidian ringlets fall gracefully down her back. What color are they in real life? Are they truly black, or perhaps a dark chestnut color, or maybe even deep burgundy?

The other girls in the picture are ugly compared to her. I don't even notice them—not even Miss Doyle. _She's so lucky to go to school with her and be friends with her_, I think to myself. I'm supposed to be dusting Miss Doyle's room, but I've become distracted and have spent the past few minutes gazing at this picture. I do it every time I come up here. Looking into the beautiful girl's eyes always makes me feel happy.

I always pretend that I know the girl. I pretend that she has come home with Gemma from school for a visit. Gemma's other two friends from the picture—Miss Worthington and the deceitful Miss Bradshaw—have not come, but her other friend, who she never has spoken of, has just arrived. I imagine that she is staying in the guest room and that I have been sent up there to help her unpack.

"Hello," the beautiful girl says in an alluring voice. Her name is something beautiful…something like flowers. It's not Rose, though, like Miss Doyle's middle name…nor is it something simple like Lily. Her name is much more exotic and interesting and strange and wonderful—Gardenia, perhaps, or maybe even Wisteria. She hates the name, but her friends call her Ria, which sounds quite lovely, I do believe.

I respond to Ria. "Hello," I say, but my voice is quiet. I mean to be obedient and pack away her clothing for her as she mills around the room, placing the photograph of her school chums here and her jewelry box there and her music box right on the bureau.

I turn around when I am done my work and Ria smiles. "Has Gemma told you my name?" she asks. Gemma has told me her name, of course, but I pretend that she hasn't and tell her just that. "It's Wisteria Morgan, but please call me Ria. All of my closest friends do, and really, you seem like such a sweet girl…"

She takes a few steps forward and kisses me softly on the cheek before murmuring her thanks for aiding her in unpacking. I blush and once she's pulled away murmur, "Miss Morgan, I don't—."

"Please, call me Ria!" she says with a laugh—the most beautiful, charming laugh ever. It reminds me of bells or birdsong. I can still smell her from when she leaned in to kiss me. She smelled just like flowers—or no, vanilla. I quite like the smell of vanilla.

I let out a sigh and say, "Welcome, Ria. I hope that we do become close friends."

"Oh, I do too!" Ria embraces me, and once more I smell vanilla. She murmurs into my ear, "I really don't like Gemma that much, but my family treats me horribly and…"

She confides in me—tells me one sob story or another. I comfort her and end up telling her of my own woes. Nearly an hour passes before Miss Doyle bursts into the room without knocking to see Ria and I embracing like sisters or friends or lovers, depending on what mood I am in or what I've imagined Ria to be like that day. We pull apart and Gemma murmurs, "I wondered what was taking you so long…"

I am forced away from my daydream at the best part—where Ria and I usually proclaim our feelings for one another, whether they are feelings of friendship or of love. Ria is about to tell Gemma that she never liked her but is glad that she came because she met me, Emily, her best friend in the whole world. But this part of the daydream is not completed. I blink and realize that I've been stroking the beautiful girl's face. I then turn around to see who is standing behind me, clearing their throat in such a fashion as to pull my back to the real world.

"Oh!" I exclaim. "Miss Doyle! I'm sorry, I got a bit distracted…I only have to dust your vanity and I'll be off…"

I do so and then attempt to exit the room, but Gemma stands in my way. "Were you looking at my picture?" she asks me, as if it is a crime to look at an exposed photograph.

"Yes," I admit. "I was." I don't dare to look Miss Doyle in the eye. I'm too embarrassed. However, I do manage to murmur, "I was just wondering who that one girl is."

It doesn't take any questioning for Gemma to know who 'that one girl' is. "Her name was Pippa Cross," Gemma says, her voice cold. _Pippa_. Pippa is even more lovely and exotic than Ria. Still, I can't help but notice the tone in Gemma's voice. Does she not like Pippa? But why? And why would any sane person have a picture of someone they dislike displayed in their bedroom?

It doesn't hit me until Gemma has moved out of my way. I am in the hallway now, and she is about to shut the door when I turn around to face her and spit out, "Was?"

Miss Doyle cocks her head to the side, a quizzical expression on her face. "Oh," she whispers, her eyes downcast, "didn't you know? Pippa died late last fall."

And with that, I curtsy, turn around, and head towards my quarters. I have a half hour before my service shall be needed again, most likely. A half hour to sit and wonder why I shall never spend an hour confiding in Pippa Cross, the most beautiful girl I never knew.


	7. The Dance

**Last night I had the urge to write some Gemma/Kartik, so here it is. I actually was planning on tricking you all into **_**thinking**_** it was a Gemma/Kartik and then actually have it be Fee and Kartik, but I just couldn't. So here it is. The Gemma/Kartik a lot of you have been waiting for. I hope it lives up to your standards, but remember, next time I'll be back with a new wacky ship, or at least one that doesn't get enough thunder out there.**

Story Seven

Title: **The Dance**

Rating: **K+ to T**

Summary: **Gemma's relationship with Kartik is a dance, but a rather dreamlike one.**

Our relationship is a dance.

It is not like the dance we shared on that Christmas morning, Kartik pulling me closer than required, but the events of that morning and of our entire lives have played into the dance in one way or another.

We flirt and we tease one another constantly, but one minute we're perfectly amicable and the next we're spitting fire and treating one another like scum. I don't know why we do it—perhaps simply because we can. Perhaps it's because we like the taste of one another so much that we know if we were to kiss and get along all of the time, an addiction would surely form.

I must admit that I long for the feel of Kartik against my body. It's not a ladylike feeling, but I hardly care. I long to kiss him nearly every time I see him, and quite often I long for other things that aren't really necessary to mention. I long for him to want me half as badly as I want him and deep down I know that the feeling is mutual.

Our relationship no longer has to be strictly businesslike now that he's left the Rakshana. We are free to talk and kiss and fall in love and make love—behind closed doors, of course. I'd do this all in a heartbeat, but what pain would it cause me? What pain would it cause Kartik? As much as I want to love him, I know that being with him wouldn't lead to my happiness, or to his. It would cause so much rushing around and secrecy that it hardly seems worth it.

Oh, but it does.

Some nights I dream that we are together. I wake up with the smell of him on me, which I can't quite explain. Cinnamon and cloves and a clean, soapy smell mixed with that earthy, smoky smell often associated with young men. I inhale deeply, resting in my bed, and imagine that perhaps we _had_ been together. Perhaps I had sought him out in the stables behind my house or in the cave near Spence or perhaps he climbed up into my bedroom or dormitory.

I know that this didn't happen, but I want it to have so badly.

Our relationship is a dream as much as it is a dance.


	8. The Lucky Few

**After "Rapture" by Hollywood-Violet and "Glass Slipper" by LunaEquus, for some reason I think Simon and Felicity like to visit one another randomly in their bedrooms. It happens like, every day, trust me.**

Story Eight

Title: **The Lucky Few**

Rating: **T**

Summary: **They're used to the game that they play, but they play it anyway.**

I'm sitting at my vanity, combing out my hair after a long day. It's nice to be home on holiday and away from learning, but then again, whenever I'm here, I realize how much I dislike being at home—confined in a space full of unseemly memories. Being at Spence might be a bore, but my memories there are completely happy. I can even look past Pippa's death and remember the good times we spent there while she was alive and breathing.

I hear a small thump and someone let out a muffled curse. I place down my brush as I see a rather funny site reflected in my mirror. I can't help but let out a snort before turning around to see the real thing with my own two eyes—not just in the mirror's reflection.

"Simon Middleton, I was always under the impression that you were more coordinated than this."

Simon's righted himself by now, but is rolling his eyes at me dramatically. "You try climbing up the side of your house at nearly one in the morning when it's dark as hell out." He brushes at his sleeves and his pant-legs, which don't look the least bit dirty to me. I'm about to make a witty remark about investing in a ladder when he says, "Speaking of the time, why are you still dressed?"

He doesn't mean it that way, or at least I don't think he does, but I feign shock. I stand up, my hand covering my mouth. I step closer to him, and still closer before dropping my hand and murmuring into his ear, "Perhaps I was planning on running away."

I feel his head turning and his lips brushing delicately against my cheek and his hand rising to turn my head since I'm being such a tease but I take a large step back before he has time to react. "Anyway, what brings you here?" I ask, crossing my arms across my chest.

His eyes wander there for a second and he doesn't look away. I should be abashed, and so should he, but we're playing the same game we've played for ages now. He finally looks me in the eyes before bowing with a flourish. Doubled over, he says, "I'm here to pay a visit to the illustrious Miss Felicity Worthington."

I let out a small sigh before he stands back up. "Well you see, Sir, there's a problem there. The illustrious Miss Felicity Worthington isn't here right now."

Simon senses the joke coming—he's breaking character and a smile is forming across his face. He corrects himself, though, and solemnly asks, "Why ever not, Miss?"

I turn around, faking exasperation. I grab a small bowl off of my vanity that I often keep fresh rosewater in and face him once more. "You can leave your calling card here," I say, now sympathetic, "or you can pay a visit with the illustrious Miss Felicity Worthington's other half."

I place the bowl back on my vanity as Simon takes a step closer. He seems to only take a step, rather, but in reality he takes multiple steps until I am nearly pinned against the vanity, our faces just millimeters apart. He's taller than me, though, and with the simplest movement of my head his lips are against my hair. I feel him stroking it, familiarly, before he murmurs, "And who might that be?"

"Well she's not so illustrious," I murmur against his chest. I can feel the tension. How long have we lasted this time? Five minutes at the most? "Only…only a few people get to see her, what she's really like."

"And am I one of the lucky few?" he asks.

I suspect that he thinks that the answer is yes by the way that I kiss him. In a moment we're in another spot all together and I have _him_ pinned up against the wall and have taken control, but in the next he's cursing about corset laces and in the next, we're lying down—perhaps on the bed or perhaps on the ground, it's all the same anymore—and exhausted.

It's time for his answer now. "No," I say, my breath coming out shallow. "No, you are not one of the lucky few."

I expect Simon to be disappointed and angry at my remark or perhaps confused, but I see that he's not when he sits up. I take in the site of him—calm as ever, and a laugh in his eyes…or perhaps it's not a laugh. It seems that I've messed up his hair a bit. It's the same light brown that it's always been but is awfully messy.

He finds his jacket and reaches into one of the pockets to pull out a small box. He opens it and pulls out a familiar object before turning to look at me. The longing's left his eyes, and I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. Shouldn't I be used to this feeling? Shouldn't I be used to that look, too?

"Care for a cigarette?"


	9. Acceptance

**Hey everyone! I hope you like this next bit. Before I get into that all, though, if you're a Karma shipper (and who in this fandom, frankly, isn't?) you **_**need**_** to check out Libba's latest Livejournal post. It has plenty o' Gemma/Kartik outtakes from TSFT! Obviously they're not going to be in the book, but there's lots of hints towards content in TSFT as well, and they're fun little sketches of the favorite duo.**

**Also, if you have any ideas as to pairings or scenes in this story, check out my "Pairings" topic in "Rebels and Beauties". **

**On with the story, then! (I didn't come up with the name Zan, by the way—it's a Slavic form of John, according to Babynames. Zan, by the way, is the boy with the big nose who seems to have a bit of a liking to Gemma when she comes to see Mother Elena and has her first kiss with Kartik. gushes)**

Story Nine

Title: **Acceptance**

Rating: **K**

Summary: **When Ann meets with her gypsy lover, she often pretends that she is someone else.**

I run through the woods, adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I love this feeling—before I find him. The adventure to our meeting spot is always exciting and new, whereas our actual meeting is just the former, if that.

Zan is waiting at the meeting spot, just a few meters away from the gypsy camp. I must admit that I'm always half-terrified that someone will leave the camp and see us together, although I know that I should be more worried about Gemma finding my bed vacant, or worse yet—Mrs. Nightwing.

We don't say hello. We just stand there for a bit, gazing at one another.

In many ways, Zan is still the boy from that night all those months ago when all four of us went to the gypsy camp to speak with Mother Elena. That night seems like forever ago—Felicity treating Ithal like she'd never seen him in her entire life, Gemma kissing Kartik like that. Zan had been the one who interjected—was Kartik so sure that Gemma was his? But her kiss had stopped his queries.

Yes, in many ways, he is still the boy from that night all those months ago. He's grown into his nose a bit, and that's helped out his appearance quite a good deal, although I must admit that the two of us make for a rather homely duo. He still has that cocky, insecure aura about him, though. I'm sure he'd act the same way if the four—no, three—of us showed up here in search of Mother Elena again.

Zan finally breaks the silence, and therefore stops my thought process. From his spot leaning idly against a tree, he says in a slightly scolding voice, "Where have you been, Ann?"

I can tell that Zan is not too happy. Is it my fault that I've been busy with schoolwork and helping Gemma save the realms? I'm nervous—afraid that I've lost him—the only young man I'll ever be able to tempt. I suddenly decide to act like Fee would in such a situation.

It's easy to do, really. I suppose that in all of my meetings with Zan, I pretend that I am someone else. Someone beautiful and charming and alluring. Now that I've taken on the part of a person like Felicity, I find myself taking confident steps towards Zan. He pushes himself up from the tree and stands up straight as I glide in circles around him. "Oh, around," I say, my voice calm. Once I reach his side, I daringly trace a finger down his cheek, to his lips. "Schoolwork is a big priority of mine, you know," I murmur, my lips teasing his—just inches away. When he moves to kiss me, I take a giant step back and say, "You just weren't at the top of my list lately, that's all."

I immediately regret my words. I might be able to _act_ like Felicity Worthington, but I do, by no means, look like her. Therefore, callous words out of my mouth are not seen as an inviting challenge. They're seen as a reason to give up. A girl of my looks and lack of wealth cannot toy with young men, even if they're homely, simple gypsies. I can tell this by the way that Zan does not even look slightly crestfallen. He just blinks, slowly, before asking, "And what makes you think you're on the top of mine?"

I blink in the same fashion now. I never really thought about Zan's priorities. I never thought that I was on the top of his list, either, come to think of it. I've worried many a night that he's been with another woman—some beautiful gypsy girl that he could have a future with. I want to say _I've never said such a thing_ but I don't. Instead, I rack my brains for the words Felicity would choose in such a situation. I can't give up my act now.

Finally, I manage to blurt out in a rather unsure voice, "You were waiting for me, weren't you?"

Zan takes that as an invitation. He closes the distance between us with a few steps and kisses me, quite angrily. He's a boy in so many ways. I know that if he were to do this to someone like Gemma, she'd push him away, not tolerating such immature actions. Felicity would probably kiss him back just as forcefully. _But I'm not either of them_, I think to myself, enjoying the feel of Zan's tongue darting into my mouth. So I do what _I_ would do in such a situation. I accept the kiss, and that is that.


	10. For A Night

**Well, this is sort of a Karma fic, but it's supposed to be Felicity/Kartik. So, take it however you want to. It's more Gemma/Kartik than Felicity/Kartik, but…oh, you'll see!**

Story Ten

Title: **For A Night**

Rating: **K+**

Summary: **Felicity was Gemma for a night.**

Gemma had it good. Sure, her mother was killed by Circe. Sure, she was expected to become a very important member of the Order. But people loved Gemma in ways that they would never love me.

Like Kartik. I always felt jealous when I saw them together, whether I'd caught them in a kiss or in a tense argument. The attraction between them was more than sexual. It was not a friendly attraction or a romantic attraction, either. It was a practical, real, true attraction. Kartik wanted Gemma just as badly as she wanted him, if not more. He loved her, and I'm sure she reciprocated the feeling, but that's not the point. Kartik loved Gemma in a way that I would never be loved.

When I first realized that Kartik was so devoted to Gemma, I thought that perhaps he was that way with any girl he was interested. Perhaps he fell head over heels every time he met a girl that he liked, a lady who interested him, a young woman who whetted his sexual appetite. In thinking this, I knew that Kartik would never like me, for I was nothing like Gemma, and therefore not his type. I knew that I would never interest him—I was sure that he'd seen plenty of girls like me before by the offhand way he looked at me. Sure, I was charming and pretty, but there were plenty of women out there who had those two qualities as well.

But there was one thing on my side that wasn't on Gemma's: sexuality.

It was jealousy that drove me towards the gypsy camp that night. I'd seen Kartik making eyes at Gemma earlier that day and it wasn't like when most men made eyes at a girl. It was different. There wasn't just want there; there was love and interest and so much more. It's not that I wanted Kartik to look at me that way. I just wanted someone to, and thought that perhaps he was my best bet.

To be honest, I was glad to see that the fire had already gone out, even if it made things colder and harder to see. I was glad that I heard snores coming from the men littered across the ground and the tents surrounding them. I was glad that I didn't spot Ithal in the darkness, which I was now growing accustomed to.

I knew which tent Kartik was in.

I headed towards it without hesitation and pulled a flap aside before crawling in. Kartik was quicker than I had expected and immediately he had pulled me to the ground, a dagger at my throat and his hand to my mouth.

The hand was loose though, so he heard me when I murmured against it, "It's just me."

To this day, I'm still not sure if Kartik knew who I was, or what happened in that moment. I'm particularly certain that he thought it was all just a dream by the way he looked at me and by the way he kissed me and by the way he called me Gemma. He certainly didn't seem abashed around Gemma or me after that night, so I'm fairly certain he did think it was all a dream.

Looking back on it, that night was one of the best nights of my life. We did not sleep together, no. He just kissed me, and I didn't kiss him back. I just rested there, thinking about how special, how _loved_ I felt. When I remember that night, I still feel the same way. There were no amorous words between Kartik and me but I could tell that he loved me, or whoever he thought I was.

And so I was Gemma for a night, and I was loved.


	11. Fixed

**I wanted to write this as a barely Tom/Kartik piece. I think it would have been more so if it was from Tom's point-of-view, but it was more fun writing it from Kartik's. At the end, it turns a little Gemma/Kartik, but whatever. Oh, and you'll notice I only use the word "fixed" once or twice simply because whenever I wrote: "I don't need to be fixed!" it sounded like a dog trying to stop its owner from taking it to the vet.**

Story Eleven

Title: **Fixed**

Rating: **K**

Summary: **Kartik was repaired a long time ago.**

"Excuse me? Mr. Kartik?"

The voice is a refreshing surprise. It's a cool, early morning in late autumn, and I'm cleaning out Rajah's stall. I stop what I'm doing though upon hearing the voice, relieved at the sensation I feel as each vertebra in my spine unravels from my hunched over position. I've wanted to take a break since I started an hour and a half ago, but haven't allowed myself to do so.

I turn around to see him standing there, already completely dressed for the day ahead of him. He always takes such care in his appearance. I normally find it silly, but right now I find myself glancing between the half clean horse stall and the young Mr. Doyle and feeling a sort of likeness to him.

But no, what likeness there is, it's a very vague one.

"Yes, Sir?" I ask, taking a small step forward. He's about three meters away, as if he's afraid to wander into my territory. I like this powerful feeling. I've never felt it around him before. He cares so much about social boundaries. But perhaps these three meters between us _is_ a social boundary, not the border of my territory at all.

"Do you have time to talk?" He's so far away that he calls the words to me, arching his neck slightly as he says it. His eyes take me in and I suddenly realize that I'm half naked. I shiver, remembering the temperature in this moment as well.

"Of course," I say, confused as to why Gemma's brother wants to talk to me. Of course he's needed to talk to me before, but he's never approached me while I'm working in the stables. He's only ever talked to me in passing, when we've arrived at a destination, when he has instructions for me.

And so what he says next takes me completely off guard, as if I hadn't been puzzled by his sudden want to talk to me before. "I've never seen you smile," he says, taking a few steps towards me. He stops a yard away from me, but I can tell that he's not satisfied with the distance by the way that he's fidgeting—smoothing is already smooth pant legs, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves. Perhaps he wants to stand closer, or perhaps he regrets closing the distance between us so.

I'm not sure how to respond to this. Taken aback, I say, "Well, I smile sometimes…" I try to think of the last time I smiled. Was it last night, when Emily came by and tried to read a few sentences from the Odyssey? Or when I saw Gemma the other day? But no, I don't do too much smiling around Gemma. We argue more than we get along, it seems, or at least we talk of dark things. Trying to rationalize my behavior, I add, "I just don't smile while I'm working, because…well, I'm too busy to smile." It's not that I'm particularly sad or anything. Although my life is not easy, it is by no means terribly depressing. Or maybe it is…there's my family. I haven't seen them since I was a child. Amar was my last connection to them, and now he's gone, just like Tom's mother.

It's the first time I've thought of him this way—by his first name. Normally he's just Mr. Doyle or Gemma's brother or the like, but he's standing a yard away from me and he looks so vulnerable. I can hardly believe that he's a bit older than me.

"I was just wondering if you were alright. If you needed…"

He doesn't finish his sentence. He just stands there, looking at me. There's something strange in his gaze, but I can't place what. Does he fear me? Look down on me? Consider me as an equal, perhaps, in one way or another? Want me?

He's blushing now, realizing that I'm looking at him looking at me. He doesn't say good bye. He just turns around, flustered, embarrassed…he seems unusually upset, perhaps dejected. I watch him until he enters the house, and then turn around, heaving out a huge sigh.

Rajah doesn't pay attention to me as I reluctantly begin to clean his stall again, but I notice the way that Ginger eyes me, a knowing expression on her face. I stop my work for a moment and meet her gaze, trying to figure out what she's thinking.

And then I realize it. She doesn't find the meeting between Tom and me strange in the slightest way. In fact, she knows how he intended to finish his fragment.

_I was just wondering if you were alright. If you needed..._

He wanted to know if I needed to be fixed—repaired, mended, renovated, even. That's all he knows, fixing things, and he seems to think that I need to be repaired just like his patients, like his father.

But I don't need to be repaired. Someone did that to me a long time ago, and her name was Gemma.


	12. Adventurous

**First, a very important note: In the last chapter, I forgot to mention that I stole the name "Rajah" from LunaEquus. I'm not sure if she mentioned it in any of her other stories, but in "That Other Redhead", the Doyle family's second horse (you know, the one who's not Ginger) is named Rajah. When I went to write the last chapter I didn't even think about the other horse's name, that's just what I typed. I was going to make a note about it but I completely forgot!**

**This one is just a different point of view from a part of "Rebel Angels". Some of you guys are going to hate this, but oh well! It was fun and easy to write. (Not really. I debated between multiple scenes in the book or making up my own. But in the end, this won out.) Anyway, I took the dialogue directly from the books, but I sort of had to, being as it's not a rewriting of the passage but just a different view.**

Story Twelve

Title: **Adventurous**

Rating: **K**

Summary: **Pages 224 to 226 of "Rebel Angels", from Simon's point of view.**

"You're not like the other young ladies my mother trots before me."

I say it before I know what I'm saying and feel like a fool. "Oh?" Gemma asks, wincing.

"There's something adventurous about you," I say. It's true. I hadn't meant to insult her. Gemma Doyle may seem proper and well-bred, but there's something else to her. It's hard to explain, but I explain it as best as I can. "I feel as if you have a great many secrets I should like to know."

My mother is looking at us. I'm not sure if her gaze is disapproving, but Gemma and I immediately move to occupy ourselves. She pulls a book from a table and lifts the cover as I reposition some figurine that my father and I really don't like but my mother insists on keeping. Gemma's voice is mysterious when she says, "Perhaps you wouldn't really want to know them."

Her words make me want to know her secrets even more. I want to reach out and touch her—her wrist, her hair, a fingernail, anything. "How do you know?" I ask. "Offer me a test."

There is a pause between us before she says in a nonchalant tone, "I have a third eye. I'm a descendent of Atalanta. And my table manners are inexcusable."

I smile, but she doesn't see it. She's too busy feigning interest in the title page of whatever book she's looking at. "I suspected as much," I say, playing along. "That is why we're going to ask you to eat in the stable from now on as a precaution. You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all," Gemma says, closing the book and turning her back to me. "What terrible secrets do you have, Mr. Middleton?"

Do I have any secrets? I'm not sure. I suppose that I do. There are things that I've done that my parents can never find out about, unless I am to be disowned. "Besides the gambling, carousing, and pillaging?" I ask, my tone still casual. Gemma is walking now, a slow promenade down the wall. "The truth?" My tone is more down-to-earth.

"Yes," she says, turning to face me. Her eyes are greener than I remember them being just moments before. Did they change or is my mental image of her faulty? "The truth."

"I'm frightfully dull." And it is, honestly, true. Or at least it should be, if I were not so bent on making it the opposite.

"That isn't true," she says, moving away from me again. Her constant movement is beginning to frustrate me.

"I'm afraid it is," I say with a sigh. "I am to find a suitable wife with a suitable fortune and carry on the family name. It's what they expect of me." I don't tell her who they refers to. Any sensible girl of Gemma's status would know, for she would feel similar pressures. "My wishes don't enter into it at all." When she doesn't turn to face me, I realize that I must be embarrassing her. "I'm sorry. That was far too forward of me. You don't need to hear my troubles."

"No, truly. I'm happy to listen." The tone of her voice doesn't suggest anything different.

My mothers voice cuts through our conversation. "Shall we retire to the parlor?" she asks. In a moment, she is gone, the other ladies behind her.

My eyes have not left Gemma this whole time, and I find that she is still looking at me as well. My eyes wander to her dark, rich, red hair. The rose that is pinned to it is falling. "Your flower is slipping, Miss Doyle." Again, I am saying things before I know that I am saying them. The flower falls to her neck, and I reach for it just as she does. Our fingers touch, and she immediately turns her head, her cheeks turning an alluring shade of red.

"Thank you."

"May I?" I don't wait for her permission. Carefully, I pick up the rose, and place it behind her ear. She does nothing, and for a moment I wonder if perhaps she is not so adventurous after all. But when I pull my hand away from her hair and she glances up at me, my doubts vanish.

Just then there is a tap at the window, and then another. Someone is throwing stones at the window. "Who is throwing rocks?" I ask, pulling my gaze from Gemma's and instead squinting into the darkness. I open the window, which we are standing just in front of, and the cold air that hits my face is a relief. I feel amazingly clearheaded, as if I'd been drunken just moments before and the air had caused me to become sober. Gemma peers out of the window behind me, but when neither of see anything below, I shut the window.

"I should join the ladies," she says from behind me. "Grandmama will be worried about me."

And when I turn around, the room is empty, save for myself and the maid.

She hasn't told me any of her secrets.


	13. The Bookshelf

**I'm only sort of happy with this one. I really loved writing it but in the end it didn't please me too much. Ahh well, read and review! And make sure you check out my last chapter…I didn't get any reviews, and that made me one said fanfic author!**

**Sorry for the long while. I was lacking inspiration. But here it is.**

Story Thirteen

Title: **The Bookshelf**

Rating: **K**

Summary: **Cecily broods over a relationship that never happened.**

One year, eight months, two weeks and a day. Is that how long it's been? Surely the calendar is lying. He kissed me just yesterday, hidden by a bookshelf, pressing me against the wall, but carefully, as if I was delicate might break.

He won't remember me when he sees me, of course. I rarely remember such dinner parties, when someone is throwing yet another suitor in my face. I doubt that he remembers everyone who he's been thrown at, either. So at least there's that to solace me. If he doesn't see me and remember that kiss like it happened last night and completely melt, he'll completely forget me, and being forgotten is better than being spurned.

The clock strikes seven and startles me. Yes, it's truly been a day now—before it was just a rough estimation. I hear someone come up the steps and move away from my vanity, from my calendar resting haphazardly across the same space where my perfumes and powders reside. "Are you ready, Cecily dear?" Mother asks, and I turn around to see that she's entered my room, fully prepared for the ball. I nod as she runs her eyes over me, answering her own question with a slight gesture of approval.

It is not far to his home. The ride only takes half an hour, and I listen to Mother chatter the entire time. "Their son will be home, Cecily," she informs me, and I look away from the window, feeling my heartbeat quicken, to my displeasure. "You've met all of them before, of course, about two years ago, at a dinner party?"

_One year, eight months, two weeks, a day, and forty-five minutes ago_, I correct her inwardly. I smile and nod, murmur, "I believe so."

When we get to his home, his _family's_ home, rather, the doors are opened for us and we're allowed inside. It's already somewhat crowded. Some guests are loitering in the parlor, perhaps greeting others or waiting for somebody before they enter the ballroom. I see him immediately, an arm looped through his. The arm belongs to someone familiar, although I'm not sure who exactly she is. Again, my heart does something that I don't approve of: It sinks completely, and I feel as if its remnants are resting somewhere within my toes. He turns around, and I think that our eyes meet, but perhaps he doesn't notice me.

Perhaps Simon never noticed me at all.


	14. Liberated

**I have no clue where this came from and it's the weirdest pairing ever. Well, almost. But it was fun and angsty to write! **

Story Fourteen

Title: **Liberated **

Rating: **K**

Summary: **Why was it so stifling in there? **

He's trapped. There aren't many young ladies not dancing, and he has no one to talk to. He's never even met the gentlemen lining the walls, the older women sipping champagne by the doorway, waiting for the clock the strike ten-thirty so they can get out of here without seeming foolish.

He's trapped, and he's going to have to dance with me. If he doesn't, he'll seem inconsiderate to everyone in our acquaintance. Rather like a Mr. Darcy of the Victorian era or a Romeo who only has eyes for Rosaline and barely notices Juliet, not that I ever fancied books and plays.

"Miss Worthington, may I…?"

Gemma's brother bows slightly, all formality but not making it past the beginning of this query. I don't answer him. I just take his hand and let him guide me to the ballroom floor. A waltz is playing. We move around lazily yet stiffly, eyeing other couples and frowning.

I know why he doesn't like me. It's apparent, really, and I'm not going to say anything, except he brings it up first. "How did you know Miss Bradshaw, again?" He says it as if Ann has passed away. As if she's long gone and nearly forgotten.

"We went to Spence together," I say.

"It was quite unfortunate…" He trails off again. I finally manage to look into his eyes and am surprised to see that he can barely hold my gaze steady. Gemma always makes him out to be so witty and confident and infuriating, but he definitely seems like none of those right now.

"It was all my idea," I tell him, even though he knows. "Blame it on me."

He meets my eyes now—brownish green, like the earth, glancing at a stormy gray. "It was nice of you, I suppose," he eventually concedes.

We nearly stop moving as we look at each other. I think that he's a pompous bastard for letting Ann go like that and caring so about Gemma's reputation. I can only begin to imagine what he thinks about me, and although I tell myself not to care, I do.

When the dance ends, we break away immediately. All formalities are ignored. I'm out of his reach within seconds and out the nearest exit, hoping to catch a breath of fresh air. _Why was it so stifling in there? _is all that I can bring myself to think. _Why was it so closed in?_

One simple footstep causes the endless outdoors to seem stifling and closed in. I hear Tom's step behind me, a clearing of the throat. I will myself not to turn around. I will Tom to not be Tom, but somebody else. Someone who will take me away from here and from every conflicting feeling that I have. Someone like…

But that someone isn't who I turn around to see upon giving up. It's Tom, of course. Perhaps he's good-looking, maybe. He doesn't seem to know a thing about how to woo a woman, though, sneaking up on me in the darkness like that. I'm about to tell him so when he says, "It _was_ nice of you."

"I'm not nice," is the only think I can manage to say, and immediately I regret it.

"You could be," he says, offering something, although I'm not sure what.

I want to prove him wrong, though. I want to close the distance between us and kiss him passionately or perhaps viciously. Not because I'm attracted to him or because I want him to make it all go away or because I want to make someone jealous or to make someone actually _want me_. I want to prove him wrong. I want to kiss him and then slap him. To hold his hand and then disdain him. To dance a waltz with him and then run away, although I've already done that.

I do none of those things, though. Instead, I head towards the door, passing him on my way. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine, but I blame it on the cold, running my freezing hands up and down my ice-cold arms. "Perhaps," I say, and then I'm inside and liberated once more and that is that.


	15. First Time

**I can't **_**believe**_** I just wrote this. You should see my face right now. I am completely surprised with myself. By the way, this is from Tom's point of view.**

Story Fifteen

Title: **First Time **

Rating: **K to K+**

Summary: **Simon and Tom should be in class.**

The first time he kisses me, we're in an empty hallway at school. We're both late to our next class for one reason or another, and I'm complaining about it. I'm going to fail. I can't fail.

I suppose that he kisses me to shut me up, and when he pushes me lightly towards the wall, my books go tumbling towards the ground. With my eyes open in surprise, I notice that my history book has opened to the atlas section, and a picture of India greets me. My sister is there, yet I am here, being kissed by a _boy_ when I have yet to even kiss a _girl_.

I panic at first, completely confused. What warranted this? Yet it feels so…pleasant? Before I know it, I'm kissing him back, assuring myself that I'm doing so solely in hopes to disconcert him—to have him jump away, surprised. But he doesn't react, and so my eyes close, and I relax, beginning to _enjoy_ the cool feel of the wall behind me, his hands on my shoulders…

There are footsteps and he pulls away from me. I whirl around, shocked. Has someone caught us? There's no one nearby, but the footsteps are still coming. I scramble towards the ground, trying to pick up my books…I get lost gazing at India and he crouches down, too, helping me with my dropped possessions. I want him to fling the books aside and kiss me again, but he doesn't. I'm not even standing up yet when whoever has been pacing the halls rounds the corner. We both look up to see the headmaster.

"Mr. Middleton and Mr. Doyle, shouldn't you be in class?"


	16. Whisper

**I wanted to update like, all my fics, but was unsure where to start. I turned on my iPod Shuffle and told it to direct me. The first two songs that played were about wanting to force someone to love you in return, so…well, this happened. It's not my best, but it was fun to write while listening to music. I should do it more often.**

**Anyway, this is vague and uses no names but for Gemma, who is not involved in the pairing whatsoever. This is from Ann's point of view, to clarify things, although you should be able to realize that from context clues. It's an Ann/Tom fic of sorts.**

Story Sixteen

Title: **Whisper**

Rating: **K**

Summary: **The power is intoxicating, but the look on his face when he awakes moments after I've left is even more stimulating.**

I come to him that night. He's laying in bed, eyes closed, not even murmuring or shifting in his sleep. I've just visited the realms with Gemma, and power clings to me and me alone. That's how I've made it to his bedroom, and that's how I'm nearly lying beside him, running my fingers over his eyes.

_Fall in love with me._

It's a whisper in his ear, and I'm gone in an instant. I hover outside his bedroom window, able to fly on my own. The power is intoxicating, but the look on his face when he awakes moments after I've left is even more stimulating.

He wants me.

_Good night_, I whisper, and he falls asleep once more after looking around wildly. I think that he spots me in the window, but perhaps not…

--

I wake up in bed at Spence moments later, confused. Was that just a dream, or real? Gemma is laying the bed opposite of me, murmuring something in her sleep. I stick my palm out, trying to conjure a rose in my hand, but it doesn't work. Surely I was dreaming…surely…

--

There's a letter for me the next day, and there's no return address. I open it in private, surprised. I never receive letters. The note is short, but I immediately skip towards the end, anyway, eager to know who has written to me. The letter is unsigned.

The letter is all of two words long:

_Good night._


	17. The Postscript

**This one's incredibly different from the others I've written so far, and you'll see how.**

Story Seventeen

Title: **The Postscript**

Rating: **K+**

Summary: **Felicity writes a letter to Simon with very mixed feelings.**

_Dear Simon,_

_I suppose that I should start this letter with all the normal pleasantries, but, believe it or not, Pippa has a word or two she'd like to say to you. She's asking me to write it for her, though. She's being rather silly, lounging on her bed and telling me to write for her as if I'm her slave. I hope you know that I'm going through this all only for her, not because I want you to have the pleasure of hearing from her._

I turn around to face Pippa. "What is it that you want to say then, Pip?"

Pippa smiles, curling a lock of curly hair around her finger. "The usual, first."

I let out a soft groan. "Why don't _you_ write it, Pip?"

"I'm sure he'll prefer it if _you_ do the writing," she says, waggling her eyebrows at me mischievously. "It's much more…enticing that way." She lets out a soft giggle, and at the roll of my own eyes I continue.

_She would like to say hello and wants to know how you and your family are fairing, but I suppose that you already know that. It always is the same with her. She's never any fun, even if I do love her to death. I look back on our adventures together and doubt that she'd ever partake in such a thing. She's a romantic at heart, but not adventurous…not spirited. But enough about her. I'd inquire after you and your family, but I think I know just how you're doing…the same as always, surely…_

"You've certainly been writing a long time just for the usual," Pippa says with a snort, snapping my attention back to her request. "Write him a few lines about the last time we saw one another."

_Pippa now wants me to talk about the last time you two saw one another. I was there, too, of course. Remember that stolen kiss underneath the staircase? Don't be ridiculous—that was a completely different night. But it was very similar. Pippa was there that night, too. I wonder if she knows about the kiss. I never did tell her. Even if she's my best friend, I'm able to keep some secrets from her._

"Oh! And tell him about that dratted man who we will not speak of!"

_As you know, Pippa's betrothed to Mr. Bumble. (She wanted me to remind you of this.) She's not pleased one bit. That's why I'm writing some of this for her. If she got caught writing a letter to another young man with anything about stolen kisses underneath staircases, she'd be the gossip of the entire school and its relations. But why would she write of that to you? You've never kissed her, have you? I don't even know what this sudden interest in her is about, Mr. Middleton. Not that I care._

Pippa lets out a giggle that startles me. "Tell him about the other night, too! He'd love to hear about the gypsy camp!" For a second, I think that perhaps she's been reading over my shoulder, but when I look to check where she is, she's still lounging on her bed. "What?" she asks.

"Nothing." And I write on.

_Perhaps I lied about Pippa's lack of adventurousness. I'll have you know that we frequent a nearby gypsy camp. Pippa simply goes to have her fortune read. She's a silly romantic at heart. There, that will help you win her over, being as you're such a ladies' man. Anyway, the following anecdote will prove to you how much I don't care about what you do: I've taken on a gypsy as a lover. Don't you dare gossip about that, or I'll tell everyone about the real reason Clara isn't your maid anymore. And about that time I caught you gambling with our stable boy, of all people._

"Anything else?" I spit to Pippa.

She doesn't respond for a while, and finally says, "Yes, that'll do." I intend to finish the letter with a final threatening note, and perhaps a slightly seductive one as well, when Pippa says in a much sweeter tone, "I'm so sorry about all of this, Fee. I feel terrible about making you write these letters. But if anyone found out that _I_ was writing to Simon, and the contents of the letters…well, I'd get in a good deal of trouble."

"Is that a bad thing?" I ask, while thinking at the same time that I'd be the one getting into trouble. The contents of Pippa's letters to Simon are never quite what she wants them to be, and I always lie upon reading them back to her.

Pippa shrugs. "As much as I don't want to marry…him…it has to be done." She sighs lightly, shaking her head, her curls bouncing around her shoulders. Sitting up, she continues. "I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind me marrying Simon rather than...Bumble…but, well…he doesn't _know_."

I can't help but feel that the epilepsy wouldn't really be a factor if Simon found out. I've never seen him this infatuated with anyone, not even with me. "It's fine, Pip," I murmur, suddenly feeling bad about lying to her. Still, when she asks me to read back the letter, I leave out all of my biting remarks, my own twisted yet amorous comments.

When Pippa's fallen asleep, I return to the letter and add a quick postscript.

_She really does love you._


	18. Grace

**Hey everyone! About a week to go until TSFT is released in America. If you're anything like me, you're freaking out! So, here's another chapter to pass the time (for me, and for you)! This is from Kartik's point of view, by the way.**

Story Eighteen

Title: **Grace**

Rating: **K+ to T**

Summary: **Kartik watches Pippa gaze out her dormitory window before she goes to bed.**

Her black-brown hair cascades down her milky white back. She is the picture of English perfection. Unblemished and snow white, this friend of Miss Doyle's resembles a girl on a cameo, a soft smile on her slightly parted lips and her eyes staring off into the distance.

After a somewhat bawdy adventure at the lake, I couldn't help but notice the girl. Then she'd been completely clothed, but her nightgown had clung to her, showing off every facet of her skin. She was a porcelain doll yet also not. There's a spirit about her that could never be found in a gift shop window.

Nearly every night she does this, stripping out of her day clothes and gazing out her dormitory window towards the forest for just a few moments. If the window is open, I often hear her roommate, another friend of Miss Doyle's, telling her to hurry up and get in her nightgown already. She always does, but only after a moment's hesitation of gazing out the window. It's as if she wants to strip out of her corset and petticoats and climb down the side of Spence and run towards the forest, leaving behind whatever worries she has. She'd take her beauty with her—it's evident that that's her grace—her redeeming, God-given quality.

The window is closed tonight, so I don't hear the other girl call to her, but when she turns her head I can't help but be amazed at the profile of her body. No feeling of lust is overwhelming me. I'm simply amazed at her beauty—her perfect nose, perfect hair, long lashes, lithe yet curved build. Her hair falls in spirals down her back and she giggles, the smile evident on her face, before disappearing from the window and walking by it just moments later, dressed in a nightgown identical to the one that she came crawling out of the lake in just a few days ago, the cloth hugging her body greedily like an octopus's soul. It's sheer and white and lacking in tentacles, but the effect is still the same.

I shake my head and turn away, blushing madly, knowing that I shouldn't have been watching her. I close my eyes and see her face—that sad, staring one. It's as if she's being pulled back, sucked on by monstrous, unseen tentacles.

I can't help but wonder if they'll gain such a hold on her that one day she'll slip from this world as she would like to slip from her dormitory window, beautiful yet free.


End file.
